


Cowpaths

by ToastyGlow



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Also Mentions of Ariadne, Alternate Universe - College/University, And Shitty Friend Pirithous, Anxiety Attacks, Child Neglect, Drinking, Eventual Happy Ending, Featuring Also Theseus' Shitty Dad Aegeus, Fraternities & Sororities, Gen, Generic Quasi-American Setting, Hazing, Love is Stored in the Fight, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Epic Highs And Lows Of College Wrestling, Theseus Has Emotional Regulation Issues, Theseus Wants Love Any Way He Can Get It, Too Many Feelings Probably, Toxic Masculinity, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28824576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToastyGlow/pseuds/ToastyGlow
Summary: Animals are adept at finding the easiest route through difficult terrain--the path of least resistance, which they trace again and again, finding safety in repetition and sameness.Theseus' path leads him to Elysium U, and Alpha Tau Nu, and...the Bull.(Or: Theseus, The Bad Frat, and Falling In Love With a Guy You Beat Up For Hazing Reasons)
Relationships: Asterius | The Minotaur/Theseus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 112
Kudos: 400





	1. not all that much a place as it is a way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theseus would like to be perfect, and he imagines with every little taste of approval and satisfaction what perfection will feel like. What it would be like to at last eliminate these flaws which so plague him.
> 
> It would help, of course, to know what’s wrong with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A while ago, in a fit of energy, I slapped together a modern AU concept about a Zagreus who works at his father's auto shop and keeps being towed back to it. I then proceeded to forget all about Zag and swerve hard into the Theseus of it all (https://twitter.com/toastyglow/status/1328501827860623361?s=20). And now: this!  
> Aegeus and Pirithous are both pretty horrible in this AU--sorry Pirithous, but you can't have been that great a best friend or Theseus would've married you instead of the Minotaur he killed. Anyway. All my gen fics tend to have the same general themes, but I think this is the first time I really feel I've executed them to my satisfaction. I hope you enjoy. <3
> 
> Recommended Listening: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5zQhETxJpslxpmaOdchKp4?si=TXLCAg-kR5-UIpDM6GFtaQ

Theseus Aegeou is nineteen and exhausted. He can still taste the alcohol from twelve hours ago like a fetid ghost on his tongue. It’s stayed with him, somehow, throughout the entire day. Through his brief (but too-long) stint in a holding cell, through Father’s first lecture in the car, through the two-hour fever dream of the psychiatry appointment, and through the wait whilst Father made phone calls and Smoothed Things Over.

He’s had to do that a lot, for Theseus. And always, afterwards, there’s the second lecture, with Theseus seated at one end of the dinner table while Father paces at the other, his jaw working as he chooses his next words. By now, Theseus knows better than to speak up while he's thinking. With the help gone for the night, the emptiness of the house seems vast. When Father speaks again, his voice seems to echo.

“How much money do you expect me to spend on bail before you stop acting like a _child?”_

“I’m not--”

“You are.” The words crush his own, flatten them like a cigarette butt beneath Father’s heel. “You say you’re a _man_ now, you think you can do what you want, but all you do is waste my money and then whine and scream like a goddamn baby the moment I ask you to take an ounce of responsibility. What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I don’t--”

One blue eye turns on him, a pilot light of disappointment in the gloomy room. “You don’t know. Again, _you don’t know._ Theseus, why were you driving so fast? _I don’t know._ Why do you throw these childish tantrums? _I don’t know.”_

“I am trying--” Theseus protests. This, too, is crushed.

“Try harder! How is this any different from the last fight, or--the thing with the damn _pig?"_

Father crosses the room in three long strides, reaching into one pocket. Thrusts something into Theseus’ hand: a cool cylinder that rattles softly. “You’ll be taking these, for all the good it might do. Who knows, maybe it’ll fix you. I’m sick of trying.”

Theseus stares at it for a moment, taking in the orange plastic, the white sticker and the black text marching along it. “What…”

“The woman recommended _therapy_ as well.”

Bile pushes at the back of Theseus’ throat. He swallows it along with the shameful rabbit-patter of his heart. “That’s--ridiculous, I’m not--I don’t need--”

“That’s what I told her. Ridiculous. Nothing you can't overcome on your own.”

“Right.” Theseus’ eyes burn with relief. He’s not so far gone, in his father’s mind, that the man would surrender him to such ignominy. He blinks the tears away before they can spill. “Thank you.”

“Theseus.” Father turns to him, and when they come eye to eye there’s that usual unsettling feeling of looking into a mirror twenty years from now. “If you don’t want people to think you’re crazy, then _stop acting crazy_. Elysium is a chance for you to start fresh. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” says Theseus, gripping the pill bottle in one sweaty hand. For the thousandth time, he makes the promise, and just like every time, he means it. He’s going to be better.

* * *

Theseus has two minds.

When his father reprimands him, insults him, despairs of him, Theseus cannot recall a single time he loved the man (or himself, for that matter). When his father praises him, approves of him, speaks glowingly of his potential, Theseus cannot remember what it means to hate him. 

Theseus has two minds. They are so wholly different that one of them must be wrong, but which--he doesn’t know.

Mainly, he tries not to think about it.

* * *

Elysium is everything he’d expected, and more. Storied buildings of brick and brownstone, full of history and grandeur. Beautiful young people sitting on the grass with laptops and iced coffee. Harried art students dashing by with bulky portfolio cases.

“This is the Diamond!” squeaks the tour guide, straining to stay audible. It was enough of a struggle indoors, where at least the walls provided helpful acoustics. Out in the open, strolling across one of the giant lawn’s many intersecting pathways, it’s a losing battle. “All these criss-crossing sidewalks look really random, right? But they formed because people kept taking shortcuts across the green, and eventually they wore down the grass and formed natural paths! So in 1895 the university just paved them! Which means they’re all the easiest routes across the Diamond! Cool, right?”

She actually waits for an answer, which is gut-shriveling to watch. Theseus averts his eyes, pretending to watch a frisbee game in the distance. Two young men dash barefoot and shirtless over the grass, shouting to each other. Laughing. The sight tugs painfully at Theseus’ chest--the carefree way they call to each other, the flashing of their tanned legs in the sun. The way they wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders, jostling together as though it were the most natural thing in the world…

Theseus turns his eyes back to the path, and the people around him. Of every prospective student in the group, he thinks he may be the only one who came unaccompanied by family. Well, that makes sense. It isn’t as though his father has any concerns about his attendance. It’s been decided since his birth.

This seems yet another welcome reason to tune out the tour guide's cringe-worthy attempts to engage the group and keep reading his leaflet. For maybe the fifth time, Theseus guiltily scans the list of clubs. Soccer, yes. Football, yes. Fencing, of course, and Father would approve, but… Wrestling...not at all.

Perhaps it’s just as well. Maybe the sport brought him joy once, but joy turns to pain, always. The greater the joy, the greater the pain, and he clings to each in turn when they arise. Each feels right, in the moment, and each in turn dies and feels wrong.

* * *

Theseus grew up in two houses.

His mother never told him his father’s name, but an enterprising, intelligent child can do a lot with an old photo. Especially a child with access to the internet (albeit via the local library).

In the photo, Aegeus wore fencing gear and carried a foil. He was young, and handsome, and blond like Theseus, and wearing a necklace with thick, blocky beads inscribed with the letters ATN. These things were familiar to Theseus; both the foil and the necklace had always sat on a shelf by the door, his mother’s place for things she didn’t need but couldn’t get rid of. 

He’d been delighted; the mystery, solved! His father, found! He’d made phone calls without his mother’s permission, fourteen years old and full of desperate questions.

Aegeus had wanted to meet him, then to pay for his schooling, then to house him. And the house--massive! Theseus had boggled at the luxury of it, the internet access, the video games, the _dishwasher_. He’d felt a keen, all-consuming joy, and never wanted to leave.

By the time Theseus entered high school, he hadn’t seen his mother in six months. By the time he realized and dialed their old phone number, no one picked up.

Theseus grew up in two houses, and he knows he should like the second one better. He knows his mother probably thought she was giving him a better life. Probably.

Or perhaps she just wished to be rid of him.

* * *

Rush week _should_ be a breeze. Theseus only has interest in one house, and given his lineage he’s basically guaranteed a bid card, so what is there to worry about? Nothing at all. He may have vomited in the sink this morning; he may have gotten some in his hair, and had to wash it out again before tying it up in a bun so tight that it’s now giving him a headache; he may have had to retake his...pills. But he’s not _nervous_. Looking out at the throngs of milling hopefuls, every other hand clutching a shiny red solo cup, the letter banners hanging bright and proud on each house--these things don’t make him nervous. He’s _Theseus Aegeou._

“You look like you're about to have a panic attack,” says a laconic voice behind him. Theseus whips around, coming face-to-face with--what, a teacher? He must be at least thirty, but it’s hard to tell given his thick black beard and flawless dark skin.

“I am _not_ ,” says Theseus, “about to have a panic attack. I am perfectly in control of myself.”

“Exactly the kind of thing people who have panic attacks say.” The man registers the look on Theseus’ face, and sighs. “Alright, never mind. Really, though, _relax_. There’s nothing to be afraid of. They’re not so bad these days, most of them. Not since the crackdown. You’ll be fine.”

“Not so bad? You say?” Theseus quavers, in spite of himself. “...Crackdown?”

“Hazing,” says the man, by way of explanation. “It was after my time, but it was all over the news for a while. You didn’t hear about it? That’s fine, you don’t want to know.”

If he wants Theseus to calm down, he ought to stop saying things like that. Still, along with the dread comes a tint of reluctant curiosity. “After your time...you attended this school? Which house--”

“Mu Mu Nu,” says the man, gesturing to the house behind him. “Lacrosse team. You can laugh, go on. It’s stupid. Then again, I'm the one who took the head coach job, so more fool me, I suppose...”

Theseus feels insulted by association, somehow. “Have you no pride as an alumnus?”

“None whatsoever,” says the man, mildly. “The house, the letters, _Greek life_...they don’t mean a thing. It’s the people who matter. And as I’m sure you already know, you can find those in any old dorm.”

Theseus feels suddenly like a cornered animal. He’s spent this entire semester in a dorm, and no amount of friendly conversation, no measure of sparkling confidence, has proved adequate to make even one friend. His face is hot. How dare this _washed-up old--_ “There is a _difference_ between ‘people’ and brothers bonded for life by trial, tradition, and four years of study! Perhaps you simply chose poorly, and that is why your career has been so _lackluster!”_

He’d meant the words to hurt--he always does in the moment, driven by righteous anger. But they might as well be water, flowing over the man like a rock in a stream. He shrugs, perfectly unconcerned. “I met some of the best men I ever knew here, but...not everyone stays in touch the way you’re expecting. Don’t get too attached.”

“Well,” says Theseus, “you clearly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He turns on his heel before the man can say another word. It only occurs to him as he's walking away that he's not even one semester into his first year at college and he just shouted at a faculty member. He’s only lucky that the faculty member in question couldn’t care less.

Be better, he thinks, furious. Be _better._ Starting _now._

* * *

Theseus takes out his phone and Gvvgles “ELYSIUM U FRAT HAZING BAD?”

There are so many articles. Theseus skims one, feels his stomach turn as words pop out at him-- _twenty drinks in under an hour--sleep deprivation--humiliating acts of--inhumane--_

He scrolls hastily back up to the top and his eyes catch on one last thing: the name of the house in question.

Theseus puts his phone away.

* * *

“...and in short, I would be deeply honored to join your ranks and continue my schooling in these hallowed halls! I have heard tell of your illustrious history and--”

“Yeah, okay, we get it man, you can stop talking like that.”

“Ah...right,” says Theseus, who doesn’t know how else to talk. The young men behind the applications table share a look he can’t decipher.

“You rushing any other houses?”

“Of course not!” Theseus declares, and sees raised eyebrows. _Don’t back down, don’t back down._ “Why would I, after all? Is this not _the_ Alpha Tau Nu?” He thinks he catches a grin somewhere in his peripheral vision and, taking this as a good sign, slides his finished application across the table. “You may have heard of my father.”

And then he walks aways, practically trembling with excitement at his own boldness. What now? A drink, perhaps, to calm his nerves? He’s not of age, but who would know? It seems everyone else here is partaking, and he’d hate to be out of place...

His wandering eyes have fallen on a massive figure across the street. Not a fraternity member, or he’d be wearing his letters. _Surely_ not a freshman like Theseus, but then again he must be taller than any senior here, as well. The black curls of his hair hang limp and drab, down to his broad, heavy shoulders. Theseus takes in also: a stained olive jacket, baggy jeans, and discolored sneakers--what would that be, a size fifty? It’s tanktop weather, and yet here is this gloomy, sweaty apparition, lumbering through the rush week crowds...Theseus is awash in secondhand embarrassment.

“Hey! Aegeou!” His view of the giant is blocked by a broad, gray-eyed boy, one hand extended to shake. Theseus recognizes him as one of the Alphas, and feels a pleasurable thrill at being recognized. “Glad you applied. Alpha’s a great house, we do a lot of charity, a lot of community work…” He winks. “Lot of fuckin’ date parties.”

Theseus clasps the proffered hand. “It’s Theseus. And you are?”

“Pirithous.” His grip is firm--too firm, a familiar, masculine test of dominance. Theseus returns it twofold, smiling, and after a long, strained moment they both relent at once.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” says Theseus, though his eyes are drawn irresistibly over Pirithous’ shoulder, seeking out the giant. Pirithous follows his gaze, snorts.

“Who does he think he’s kidding? Like anyone’s gonna drop a bid card on someone like him.”

“Like him?” says Theseus, knowing exactly what Pirithous means by it.

“Yeah, greasy fuckers. Look at his hair, right? And you can’t see it from here, but that jacket he’s wearing? Holes in the pits. Saw ‘em earlier. Not to mention, who wears a scarf in weather like this, right? Looks fucking homeless, not a chance in hell. Not even Chi would take a motherfucker who looks like that.”

The motherfucker in question turns around, almost as though he heard them, and Theseus’ blood turns to ice.

It’s Ariadne’s brother.

* * *

Theseus remembers him.

It had been the main goal, in convincing Ariadne to let them hold a party at her house--or at least, the main goal of Theseus’ friends at the time. _Do you think we could sneak into the basement? Do you think he’s really there? Do you think he’s really, like, deformed?_

Theseus had been a junior, and dating Ariadne in that strange, awkward, not-quite-a-relationship way that seemed so common around that age. Both their fathers had approved, at first--good blood, good money, both likely to attend the same college, even. Theseus had imagined a future with her, out of obligation more than anything, and felt...not too bad about it, really. And it was better, if he was honest. Better than crushes he'd nursed before, all of which had been so huge and euphoric and horrible that he’d felt his heart would come to pieces (and it always did, inevitably).

The bland enjoyment of her company seemed preferable by far.

He recalls very little of the party, up until the ill-conceived attempt to enter the basement. At that point his recollection comes in sharp, vivid snatches: Ariadne, yelling that they’re not allowed down there; a shadow at the base of the stairs; a face, which in its abject fury ingrained itself upon Theseus’ memory; her brother, charging up the stairs, throwing one of Theseus’ friends down them, the _crack--_

The boy had survived. Still, Theseus remembers his body, lying twisted and silent where he fell. The blood. The scandal that followed.

He and Ariadne broke up after that, obviously. They haven’t spoken since. When last Theseus heard, she’d been all but disowned for applying to some party school across the state line. And for all the time they spent together, he can barely remember her face now--or for that matter, a single thing they did together.

But he remembers her brother.

* * *

Supposedly, after their suspension, Alpha Tau Nu reformed. Supposedly, the upperclassmen no longer carry out obscene cruelties against their pledges during Hell Week. And perhaps that’s the case. Certainly Theseus hasn’t been forced to drink until he blacks out, hasn’t been made to bob for apples in a toilet. But he suspects on some level that largely what they did was learn to hide it all better.

He’s been awake for forty-eight hours. In that time, he’s cleaned the house’s kitchen floor with a toothbrush, been used as a footstool, and been forced to make horrifically lewd anonymous prank calls to the house of one of the school’s donors. Besides which, they’ve devised a special rule for Theseus in particular: fifty push-ups whenever he speaks without being spoken to. Fifty on its own is not a lot for Theseus, but it adds up, over time--especially without a solid night’s sleep.

Currently he’s standing at attention with the rest of the pledges, blindfolded in a storage closet, waiting for one of the Alphas to return and continue the tirade of abuse where his brother left off. Theseus has never heard so many creatively sexual insults in his entire life--certainly not so many aimed specifically at his mother--but at this point, he’s almost too exhausted to care. In fact, he almost wishes the shouting would start again just to keep him awake. The silence is _unbearable_.

He fidgets a moment longer and then, feeling he must do something or die, he leans over, nudging the shoulder next to his. “What is the point of this, exactly…?”

“Shut up,” hisses the other pledge. And then, apparently unable to help himself, “You heard them! It’s, like...proving your loyalty. Making sure you really want it.”

“It seems to me there are other potential methods--”

“Shut _up!”_ Pause. “This is just how they do it, okay? Some guys did it this way centuries ago, and now they still do it, that’s what tradition _is.”_

To Theseus, it sounds rather like deciding to pave a dirt path purely because it’s there. But before he can make this dazzlingly insightful observation aloud, the door slams open again.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear you talking, neophyte! Drop and give me fifty, bitch!”

* * *

Theseus would like to be perfect.

He imagines a man: beautiful, and muscular, and loved, and heroic--although the exact definition of his heroism eludes Theseus. Heroism in movies requires a villain to stand against, and Theseus’ every attempt to stand against perceived villains has been reprimanded. The Procrustes incident, for example.

That had been something of a breaking point. Theseus had felt perfectly justified in his actions, and yet he’d been removed from the wrestling team. Father’s idea--one of his last attempts to create change through punishment.

_What is wrong with you?_

_I don’t know._

In the moment, it had felt right. And then, later, he was consumed with disgust at his own impulsivity, his lack of self-restraint.

Since then, Theseus has settled for daily gym visits. He has a schedule, and sticks to it. He never skips leg day. He posts selfies to instagram displaying his narrow waist and cut obliques and bulging biceps, and checks for new comments every thirty seconds after posting.

Theseus would like to be perfect, and he imagines with every little taste of approval and satisfaction what perfection will feel like. What it would be like to at last eliminate these flaws which so plague him.

It would help, of course, to know what’s wrong with him.

* * *

The Fountain is Alpha Tau Nu’s place. It’s old enough to still have a working fireplace in one corner, which now crackles cozily against the sinking temperatures outside. The dark-varnished wooden walls are covered with picture frames holding class photos, signed headshots, jersey numbers. Alpha Tau Nu paraphernalia abounds.

The establishment belongs to an alumnus who gives them a generous discount, free drinks, and more stories from his own time at EU than Theseus can really stomach. From his father, such tales sounded grand and dreamlike. From an old man behind a bar, it sounds more like someone desperately clinging to his glory days.

...Though, comparing the two, Theseus can’t pinpoint much of a difference.

Before he can follow this thread any further, however, someone jostles his shoulder. “It’s the Bull,” says Pirithous, pointing out of the nearest window. Across the street, just emerging from a 24-hour drug store, is Ariadne’s brother.

“I, is that his name?” Theseus manages, trying to ignore the fist of unease clenching his heart.

“Fucking hell, neo,” says someone, and a laugh ripples around the room--even through the rest of the former pledges. Theseus flushes.

“Obviously not,” says Pirithous. “It’s what we started calling him after he applied to the house.”

“He...applied.” Something about the thought terrifies Theseus. He feels followed. Hunted.

Pirithous waves this away “Yeah, after you did. I told you, though, remember? No chance in hell.”

“Right. Yes.” Theseus finds his eyes fixed on the figure across the road, a great hulking shadow next to the sign of the bus stop. “...Good.”

“Not a fan, neo?”

“No,” says Theseus, with feeling. A moment later, he becomes faintly aware of muttering behind him, and soft laughter, triggering a familiar paranoia-- _they’re talking about me._ (And yet, not once has he ever confronted someone and had his suspicions confirmed. Either they’ve all been liars to a man, or he’s simply…)

“One last test,” says Pirithous, now loud enough for Theseus to hear. “Just for you, since you’ve got such a hateboner for the guy.”

“I don’t--”

“Bring us his stupid scarf.”

 _One last test._ Betrayal claws at Theseus’ insides, compelling him to turn at last. “But...I crossed. Surely you can’t be serious--we are _brothers_ now, bonded in--”

“So you’re gonna just tell you big brother to fuck off?” Pirithous raises his eyebrows. “See how that works out for you, asshole.”

Desperately, Theseus searches the faces around him for any sign of sympathy, and finds not an ounce. Not a _trace._ Inanely, he finds himself thinking of the lacrosse coach. _It’s the people who matter._

Well, Theseus doesn’t _have_ any other people, so he will _make_ these ones matter. And more importantly, he will make himself matter to them.

“H-he won’t let me have it without a fight,” he says, trying to sound lofty and casual. For a moment Pirithous frowns, and Theseus feels the embers of hope glow gently in his chest, but then--

“Good point--gimme your jacket. You don’t fight in your letters, remember?”

Theseus looks down at his T-shirt, ATN printed in blue across his chest. “But--”

“You _don’t fight in your letters,”_ Pirithous repeats, to a chorus of agreement from the rest of the table. “And you should be able to tell me why not, neo!”

The words don’t crush, not the way Father’s do, but they come close enough. Theseus steels himself and drags his arms out of his jacket. Hands it to Pirithous, then strips off his shirt, quick enough that he doesn’t have to think about it--someone wolf-whistles sarcastically. “To avoid besmirching the name of the house! Sir!” He stands, rolls his shoulders, and glances back once, praying he looks more confident than he feels. “But by the way? It’s _Theseus_.”

It was stupid, perhaps, but the response from the group is only half jeers. The rest is...applause. Theseus grins, despite himself. That had been his favorite part of wrestling--dazzling some massive brute with elusive speed and flawless feints, and pinning the guy before he knew what had hit him. And then the count, and then the _cheers…_

Theseus loved that sound more than anything. Fighting, he’s good at. Fighting is uncomplicated, and real, and when he does it well, when people groan in awe and clap him on the back, he feels more loved than he ever has in his life.

Naked from the waist up, he pushes through The Fountain’s front door and strides towards the Bull. January air bites into him, mercilessly cold, making his muscles seize and shudder. Best to finish this as fast as possible, but still, Theseus just can’t stomach the thought of jumping someone without warning.

He clears his throat as he approaches.

“Excuse me! I’ve come to take your scarf, and I’m afraid I cannot accept _no_ as an answer! Fight me if you must, but be warned: you look upon the three-time high school wrestling champion of the Attican tri-county area!”

The Bull stares blankly down at him. Exhales once through his nose, his breath turning to a heavy puff of fog.

“Then--on your guard!” says Theseus, refusing to be demoralized. He can do this. He _will_ do this.

He notices, circling warily around the Bull for a better angle, that his outfit is much the same as it was during rush week. The same jacket, the same baggy jeans...and, of course, the scarf, a lumpy thing made of red yarn. _Hand-made?_ thinks Theseus, his curiosity piqued in spite of himself. He doesn’t seem like the type--

The Bull tries to punch him.

Theseus is only saved by his reflexes and his comparative height, which makes ducking a straight punch from such a tall opponent somewhat easier. Still, though, if he starts punching down-- No, Theseus won’t let him.

He won’t allow this to continue as a boxing match, either. Theseus lowers his center of gravity, takes a breath, and charges in low. It doesn’t matter how big his opponent is; there’s no mat under them here, only ice-cold concrete. If Theseus can drop him, he’ll stay down.

An image flashes through his mind--a body, twisted and still at the bottom of the stairs--but the fight is on, and everything else is burned away in the pure, cold clarity of it. Too low to take punches, too quick to be caught--his hands dart forward, “miss” twice then wrap around one ankle. But the Bull holds stable, terribly difficult to catch off-balance. Theseus dodges another swing and tries a duck-under, catching one heavy thigh in his arms--too late to use the momentum of the punch to any great advantage. _Damn it._

The Bull glares back at him as he retreats, one dark eye burning through dark, curly hair. He lowers his own stance, massive hands flexing, then balling into fists. The sight should be terrifying--perhaps on some level, it is. But it is a fear Theseus knows how to defeat, which transmutes it wholesale into exhilaration.

“Impressive!” he calls. “But you haven’t landed a hit y--”

His reflexes aren’t quite enough this time. The knuckles of one monstrous fist only just graze his face, but he _feels_ his nose break, feels his teeth cut at the inside of his mouth. Hot copper touches his tongue, and he knows that he’ll remember this moment for the rest of his life: the dark and the cold, the taste of blood and the monstrous, unstoppable power in that punch. How can it be so miserable and so glorious, all at once?

Theseus _must_ beat him, after that. What a win it would be, what a _fight--_ He spits blood, his eyes watering from the cold and the pain, dodges another punch with renewed speed and vigor and sidesteps the Bull, laughing aloud. Anyone else might go for a chokehold, from behind, but not Theseus Aegeou--he hooks an arm through the Bull’s legs, another around his waist, lowers his own core and, with great groan of effort, tips himself back for the throw.

For a single, dreadful moment he thinks it won’t work, that the Bull is too heavy, too strong--but the Bull roars in panic, flails to throw him off, and Theseus feels him tip ever so slightly. It’s all a good wrestler needs.

Theseus would swear the very ground shakes when the Bull lands. And that should be the end of it, a triumphant finale, but only an instant later, he’s stirring again-- _No!_ \--Theseus drops, straddles his chest and throws punch after frantic punch. The Bull meets his gaze between blows, his eyes still burning--Theseus wants them to close, splits his knuckles across one heavy cheekbone. Just give up give _up give up--_ get out of my sight--embarrassment--what is _wrong with you--_

Something catches his eye, then. Rolling across the pavement, not a foot away.

An orange plastic cylinder with a white cap.

In frozen clarity, Theseus zeroes in on the label-- _clonazepam,_ never-memorized yet familiar--and panic sets in with a jolt _\--no, he can’t see--_

The Bull’s grabs it before he can, pockets it-- “That’s _mine,_ ” Theseus snaps, indignant even in his terror (more like _“das bide”_ , his nose thick with blood). He claws at the Bull’s jacket for another five seconds or so before realizing--of course it isn’t his. He wouldn’t be caught dead carrying his pills.

So, then…

He looks up at the drug store’s flickering sign. Back down at the Bull. Withdraws his bloody hand, flushing stupidly. It occurs to him that half his hair has come loose, hanging in a messy blond sheet against his left cheek. “That is to say…”

Before he can say what that is to say, or even decide at all how he feels, there’s a hooting noise from across the street and a sound of running feet. And a $500 Nike collides with the Bull’s face, snapping his head to one side.

“I don’t believe it!” Pirithous’ hand lands on his head, undoing the remnants of his bun with a spirited ruffling. Theseus stares down at the Bull. As hard as he had willed him to lie still a moment ago, he now wills even harder for those dark eyes to open again. One of the Alphas clutches the scarf, yanks it free from the Bull’s neck. Theseus doesn’t move, can’t breathe. _Get up. Get up. Get up._

Just as he sees the Bull’s eyelids flicker at last, someone grabs Theseus’ arm, hauls him away.

People are yelling, laughing.

His head is ringing.

Someone drags a shirt over his head.

Someone staunches his nose with napkins.

Someone puts a beer in his hand.

It’s hot. He must be back in The Fountain.

Numbly, he looks out through the window, across the street. There’s no great body lying on the sidewalk, and no vengeful shadow outside the door.

“Took his bus,” says Pirithous. “ _He_ knows how to pick his fights, unlike some people I could name! You’re fuckin’ crazy, huh?”

The word is like a knife to the gut. It must show on his face, because Pirithous meets his eyes and frowns exaggeratedly.

“Oh, sorry, did I hurt your _feelings_ \--come on, I meant it in a good way! You _made_ it, Aegeou! For real this time! Now--” He raises the red scarf aloft between thumb and forefinger with mock-delicacy, like a society lady holding a mouse by the tail. “Time to destroy the evil, once and for all!”

He’s halfway to the fireplace when Theseus realizes when he intends. His stomach twists, but--why interfere? Pirithous is right: he made it. He’s among brothers at last. He fought and won and earned their respect, and at last the rest of his life can begin.

And then a memory bubbles to the surface of his mind. He’d thought all the details of his relationship with Ariadne were lost to time, but one small moment presents itself now, like a message from a particularly passive-aggressive god. Ariadne, sitting with her legs across his lap, listening with half an ear as he told her about wrestling practice. She’d been knitting. She used to knit. Ariadne knits-- Knitted scarf-- Ariadne’s brother--

“Wait!" Theseus cries, flinging out an arm. All eyes turn to him. He’s sweating again. His head hurts. “I have reason to believe that scarf was made for him by his sister,” he announces, anyway.

This does not have quite the effect he had hoped for.

“And?” says Pirithous. Theseus swallows hard, feeling the balance start to change once again, their estimation of him dropping once again, his father watching (always watching, _What is wrong with you?)._

Theseus doesn’t know. He may never know. He may regret this later with every cell in his body, and be consumed with self-hatred. But in this moment, despite everything, it feels so right that he can’t imagine it being wrong.

“I shan’t allow you to burn it,” he says. He’s aware, of course, that he’s not in any position to allow _anything._ He knows he can’t beat them all at once.

And so, unfortunately, do they.

* * *

Theseus has hurt people before.

He broke Procrustes’ knee, for one. But hadn’t Procrustes deserved it, for dislocating three shoulders in one tournament? And the referees had seemed quite happy to let it happen, so what choice did Theseus have? _Someone_ had to do something!

His mistake, perhaps, was to mete out justice upon fellow high schoolers. Had he beaten a mugger on the street, he might have been the pride of the town, interviewed for the local news! Headlines announcing his bravery and prowess! Instead, after every fight there was the visit to the principal’s office, the disapproval, the lectures from Father. The disappointment.

He wonders, as his arm breaks under someone’s heel, whether things will be different, this time. It certainly feels different.

Theseus has hurt people before. He’s never been hurt _for_ someone before.

* * *

The hospital is cold. He’s been here for a couple days now; time has passed, word has spread. Apparently he got in a fight all on his own, and ATN is ashamed to call him one of theirs. They condemn his actions, because fighting is not what they stand for. They are very proud of the rest of their new initiates, who they know will impress the community at next week’s food drive.

He’s received enough threatening messages from unknown numbers (Alphas all, he assumes) that when his phone buzzes at six AM on the second day, he almost lets it lie. But Theseus can’t bear not to know what people are saying about him, so with a shaky sigh he opens his inbox.

As always, his father texts with perfect capitalization and punctuation.

_I’ll pay for your tuition, room, and board, and not a cent more._

_Don’t bother coming home._

Theseus' body starts to tremble uncontrollably. He swallows hard, waiting for it to pass, but it doesn't, only increases until his teeth are chattering, until he's forced to drop his phone. He doesn’t know whether he’s sick, or angry, or on the verge of tears. Rapidly he decides it must be all of the above, and on top of that a looming, stomach-turning dread, a certainty that he is not good enough, has never been, will never be. That he’s failed, that his life is over, that he’s sure to _die_ from this pain in his chest--oh, god, is he having a heart attack--?

After a good fifteen minutes of the nurse patiently telling him to breathe and Theseus wheezing that it won’t _help,_ he’s _dying,_ and can’t they _do something--_ he at last submits to her recommendations. It takes an eternity, counting uselessly through each inhale and exhale. Every so often some new, terrible thought will grip him and send a fresh spike of fear through him. Eventually, though, his heart stops hammering. His chest loosens. And in his relief, he weeps. Bawls, more accurately, clutching at his phone like a child, as though by holding it more tightly he might will another text to arrive--one in which his father relents and calls him home again.

It never comes, of course.

(“Are you taking anything for that, honey?” says the nurse, stroking his back. Theseus hates the gentleness of it. He shakes his head and doesn’t know why.)

Later, he finds the Bull-- He finds Ariadne’s brother again. He’s studying under a tree on the Diamond, working through a stack of flash cards, an olive-green backpack slumped next to him. Occasionally he'll pause to circle or underline something on a card, the pen seeming tiny and delicate in his enormous hand. The sight is so domestic, strange in contrast to Theseus’ last memory of him.

But then he looks up, and his face is a technicolor patchwork of bruises, and--ah. _I did that,_ thinks Theseus numbly. Ariadne's brother cannot look at his face and think the same--except in the case of his poor splinted nose. Had their situations been reversed, would Theseus' opponent have hit him while he was down? Theseus suspects not, but...perhaps he's about to find out.

When Ariadne's brother stands, reaching again his full, mind-boggling height, Theseus braces himself for another of those impossible punches. He thinks he might die if he receives one point-blank, but...so be it.

The giant just waits. They stare at each other. A cyclist whirs by, club music pumping out of her earbuds. Theseus notices, stupidly, that his jacket is on the ground by the tree and his black T-shirt is...very tight-- _What--_

An earthquake rumble of a voice shakes him from this bewildering train of thought. “What do you want.”

“Ah,” says Theseus, glad to be distracted. He extends a hand--the left one, as his right is in a sling. “I’m Theseus Ae-- I’m--Theseus. What’s your name?”

His hand hangs unshaken in the air. With each nervous pulse of his heart, the many dull aches across his body seem to throb.

“...Asterius,” says Asterius.

“A lovely name,” says Theseus, not knowing what else to say. He lets his hand drop, scrubs it vigorously against one leg.

Asterius disregards this entirely. “Where are your friends.”

“That’s unimportant! And they are not my friends, but--forget about that! See here, I was hoping to--apologize, for my actions on Sunday--”

“Who broke your arm.”

“You are assuming that someone broke it!” Theseus protests. “Can it not simply be broken?”

“No.”

“It--it’s--well, it doesn’t matter! Asterius. I am sorry that I failed to save your scarf. Moreover, I am...sorry that your scarf was taken from you. Although--I admit, it isn’t as though I had no hand in it, certainly I did, but I had begun to reconsider by the time our fight ended, you must believe me…” He trails off, watching the face above him anxiously.

Asterius casts his gaze aside. “It was a scarf.”

This is somehow worse than the harshest castigation. Theseus babbles on, not knowing what reaction he seeks. “I wouldn’t have done it! You must know I didn’t want to do it--I mean, I confess, fighting you was a thrill, but the scarf-- Asterius, perhaps you might understand...I’ve spent my entire life walking these _paths,_ paths I never chose! But they were the easiest, so I set foot on them, and by so doing, over and over, I paved them for myself! Without even knowing it!”

“What,” says Asterius.

“But I--I should like to leave them!” Theseus thinks wildly back to the day of the tour, the young men laughing and playing. “I should like to--walk on the grass instead, and play frisbee as bros do, and--” He pauses, feeling he’s lost the thread of his speech. Asterius looks blankly back at him.

“You...want to play frisbee with me.”

“Yes--no! In a manner of speaking--”

“I don’t want to play frisbee.”

“No?” Theseus’ body turns leaden. He looks down at his feet, which now seem distant and not quite his. “No, I...suppose you wouldn’t, would you? Given...everything that’s passed between us. Hah! And here I was complaining of my own troubles, as though I were owed any sympathy--”

“I want you to show me how you beat me,” says Asterius.

Theseus looks up again, puzzled. “Ngh?” he says. “That is, what?”

“No one’s ever beaten me in a fight.”

“I should imagine not,” says Theseus, with a tremulous grin. “With a physique like yours.”

“But _you_ _did.”_

“And you want--”

“I want a rematch.”

Theseus feels a familiar tug in his chest, that sweet, painful happiness, stronger than he’s ever felt it. Oh, no. “But...I attacked you,” he says weakly, as though Asterius could have forgotten. Asterius merely stares back at him, dark eyes burning again. What _is_ that, Theseus wonders--curiosity? Anger? Or just the fire that he himself always felt, stepping into the ring: that fierce desire to win.

“No one’s ever beaten me,” Asterius repeats. “A rematch. Right here, if you want.”

Oh, _no_ , thinks Theseus, even as a smile breaks across his face, opening the splits in his lip. Oh, no, no, no. No, joy always turns to pain, always his heart is torn to pieces--he can’t, not again--

To his credit, he tries. For a moment, he tries so hard to hold it all at bay. “Not now,” he says, gesturing to his sling. Asterius snorts, relaxes. The fire in his eyes subsides.

Theseus wants to see it again.

“Have you…” He takes a deep breath, braces himself. _Once more, into the breach._ “Have you ever thought about trying wrestling?”

Asterius frowns. “...No. I thought this school didn’t have a wrestling club.”

Theseus grins up at him--so Asterius had looked for one as well! His delight at the thought wipes all else clean, for a moment--his father, the house, and every mortifying mistake from his past. He barely dares think it, but...perhaps, somehow, college won’t be so bad after all.

“Well,” he says, patting Asterius’ arm, “not yet, it doesn’t!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd intended this to be a stand-alone thing, but as I was writing it I realized I there were more questions I wanted to answer. IS Theseus going to end up with another broken heart? Is he ever going to actually see a fucking therapist? How would he react to Asterius befriending someone else, i.e. Zagreus? (Wait, I can answer this one: in a wild and unexpected twist, not well at all.)  
> Fraternities overall seem like they're pretty chill, actually, for the most part. But I did some bare-minimum research for this fic and I tell you what, there has been some fucked-up shit in the history of greek life (both in the way of frats and greek myth, lol).
> 
> (Fun fact: Asterius takes his meds for general anxiety and agoraphobia, while Theseus' were recommended STRONGLY to be coupled with dialectical behavioral therapy, which he is very much not getting)


	2. ‘til it’s both nothing like and everything it’s always been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asterius is fragile in small ways. It’s only now occurring to Theseus that he might be as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of abuse, neglect, and trauma feature more heavily in this chapter. Also more bad decisions from Theseus! Honestly I thought this chapter would be a little more cheerful, I don't know why. Eventual happy ending though!! Points at the tags!!  
> Again, even though I know it's a special kind of presumptuous, I feel obliged to mention that I made a playlist for the fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5zQhETxJpslxpmaOdchKp4?si=LRAYdclLRDyvHeczpvAjHA  
> I have no idea if listening to it will actually improve the experience of reading, I just get overly-excited about connecting music to fandom things, you know how it is. And I'll die on the hill of "...well, better than the alternative" by Will Wood being a Theseus song:  
> "Baby, could you play along with me?  
> Baby, would that be alright with you?  
> And when we find out what's wrong with me  
> Could you tell me how I'm right for you?  
> Could you tell me how, could you tell me how, and if I'm still pretty?"

Theseus is twenty, and has short hair now, and is too happy for it to last.

He can see himself in the mirror hung on the door to his room. He has, in fact, been sneaking peeks at himself ever since the cut--short on the sides, swept into a perfect golden pompadour on top. Asterius really did a shockingly professional job cutting it.

He’d talked as he worked, his rumbling voice barely audible over the buzz of the clippers--about providing similar assistance for Ariadne, as their parents hadn’t approved of her short hair and wouldn’t let her see a barber. Theseus had _hmmm'_ d and _aaah_ ’d along for a bit, then quickly changed the subject. Asterius must not know how his sister hates Theseus, must not be aware of how completely they avoided each other in their last years of high school. Theseus certainly doesn’t remember her with _short hair_.

Now Theseus is seated on his bed while Asterius sits below on the floor, his back warm and heavy against Theseus’ shins. Theseus cards his fingers through long, dark curls, marveling at their softness. Asterius had known better than to brush it into a frizz, but had previously simply washed with some cheap “all-in-one” product, and _never_ moisturized. But if there’s one thing Theseus knows how to do besides wrestle, it’s care for a magnificent head of hair.

So products were purchased, and lessons were taught, and somewhere along the line Theseus had decided that as he is a different man now, he might as well show it. And so here they are.

“You must tell me if it’s too snug,” Theseus tells Asterius, drawing his mane back into a thick bunch and reaching for a ponytail holder. “And you are _certain_ you would not like a bun?”

“I like feeling it on my back,” says Asterius. He does not explain the sentiment, and Theseus accepts it. There is comfortable companionship in this.

“Very well! But you must allow me to braid it, next!”

Asterius leans back to look up at him, upside-down, and instinctively Theseus pauses to cradle his head in both hands. Suddenly he feels very warm all over. Asterius has such weight to him, a kind of inexorable heaviness that makes physical contact with him impossible to ignore.

Or perhaps it’s just Theseus.

“Hm. That’s fine.”

“Good,” says Theseus breathlessly, and levers Asterius’ head up to tie off the ponytail with practiced hands. “Good, good! Well! There it is!”

He wriggles free, slides off the bed and kneels to examine his handiwork from the front: Asterius with his hair drawn back, the broad, handsome planes of his face illuminated in noon light bouncing off a nearby wall. Theseus very much hopes he’ll choose to keep the style.

“There,” he says again--his voice cracks and he clears his throat hurriedly. “--You see? I think it looks excellent! And soon we shall have that stubbly jaw of yours neatened up as well, my friend!”

On a whim, he extends one hand and fondly pats the jaw in question. It was meant to be a brief, brisk thing, but before he can withdraw, Asterius’ hand rises and pins his. His cheek is rough. His palm is huge and warm. The air changes.

“Um,” says Theseus.

Asterius leans toward him, quiet and serious, unreadable as ever. Theseus can hear him breathing, low and heavy, as though focusing on a small, delicate task. He’s a foot away. His fingers fold around Theseus’ hand, ever so gently.

Theseus pulls away.

They stare at each other for a long moment--Theseus in a frozen, wordless panic, while Asterius...well, it’s difficult to tell. Theseus is still learning the little indicators of his moods, and he sees none of them now.

At last, Asterius sits back. “I’m...sorry. I thought...”

The broken tension unleashes a bewildering flood of emotions, at its forefront entwined disappointment and relief. “Oh--think nothing of it, my friend! I did not mean to--that is, I was not--frightened in the least! If that is your concern!”

Asterius frowns. “But...you...don’t have feelings for me.”

Theseus is burning all over. He can still feel Asterius’ hand on his, the sensation printed on his skin. He can’t breathe. Still, he contrives to laugh so loudly that his neighbors must hear it through the walls. “Ahahah--Asterius! You are my best and noblest friend! I would do battle with you unto eternity and never tire of it! _Those_ are the feelings I have for you!”

“Ah,” says Asterius. He thinks a little longer. Looks at the wall mirror to his left, running a hand back over his hair. “...Not bad.”

It’s unclear whether this refers to the ponytail or the feelings Theseus described. Theseus does not ask him to clarify.

* * *

Asterius is too good for Theseus.

To say nothing of the obvious things--that Theseus led the charge into the basement on that fateful night of junior year, that he attacked Asterius on the street, that he could not save Asterius’ scarf from the fireplace--it’s just that… It’s just…

Theseus is too much.

Well, with Ariadne of course he’d been too little. But he’d dated two people before Ariadne, and both relationships had ended in terrible fights. Fights _he_ had instigated over some misunderstanding, some suspicion, some perceived slight. All this, even after adoring them, after feeling so much contentment he thought he would burst. Every time.

He’s an explosion no one has survived. And he can feel it approaching, now. Even Asterius’ friendship is sometimes too much. It’s all he can do to restrain himself from reaching further, because one day Asterius will do something, and Theseus will hate him. Theseus will _hate_ him, if only for a moment, and say something in that moment that ruins them. Or something that makes it all _feel_ ruined, which is functionally the same thing.

Asterius, he knows, would never do such a thing. Asterius, who says only what he means, who hums and rocks his head back and forth rather than smiling, and smiles rather than laughing. Asterius, who does not hate Theseus despite the fateful night and the attack and the burned scarf. Asterius, who is solid and real where Theseus is flighty and false.

Asterius is too good for Theseus. And perhaps more importantly: whatever feelings he may harbor, they must be mild in comparison to the explosion trapped in Theseus’ heart.

* * *

“You don’t hate it, do you?” says Theseus, for the tenth time today.

“I don’t.”

“I seem to recall much being made of maintenance and--salt water cleaning--”

“It’s no trouble.”

“Right! Yes.” Theseus turns back to his class catalogue for the next semester, chewing at his lip. They’re seated on the floor together, backs to the wall, facing broad plexiglass windows that overlook the field. The gym doors down the hall are open, allowing the sounds of the karate club’s last drills to echo out.

“--Are you _sure_ \--”

Asterius turns to him, cutting him off with a look. The little stainless steel hook through his septum winks in the evening light. It had all seemed like such a good, obvious idea at the time--a nose piercing for Asterius! Reclaiming the title of “the Bull”! They’d been out on the town, such as two minimum-wage college students could be--drinking cheap beer and wandering between shops without buying a thing. Until, of course, Brightsword Body Mods. Which Theseus had insisted they visit.

A movement shakes him from his guilty ruminating. Asterius taps the piercing twice, illustratively. “I only do things I want to do.”

Theseus’ heart flutters. Something inside him seems to unwind. “Right,” he says after a moment. “I...apologize, my friend. I’m glad to know my enthusiasm was not an--unwanted influence!’

Asterius’ eyes crease slightly (this, too, is a smile). “No. But...mm. You did it again.”

Theseus finds it eminently difficult to focus while his heart is so ill-behaved. “Huh? What?”

“Made up a story,” says Asterius. “You’re always making stories.”

That gets his attention. “I am not!” Theseus cries, indignant. “I have never once lied to you, my friend! Why, I’m sure I wouldn’t know how!”

(It only occurs to him later this is, itself, a lie.)

Asterius shakes his head. “No, I meant... _Asterius only got the piercing because I said he should, and he hates it._ That’s a story. You do that a lot.”

“I--it’s not...” How to explain it...how to describe all the little things he thought he’d seen, which seemed to add up to that undeniable conclusion…

“You’re very creative,” says Asterius. “You should take that writing class. Or theater.”

Perhaps this is why he assumed Asterius would be so easily influenced by him--because Theseus is so easily influenced by Asterius. He circles both classes with a sweep of his pen. “Astutely recommended, my friend!”

Down the hall, the shouting ceases at last and gi-clad martial artists pour out into the hallway, chattering about club dues and The Tournament Next Week. Theseus misses tournaments, sometimes, and sometimes he envies the karate club their wealth of members. But then again, it’s a kind of treasure to have Asterius (mostly) to himself, as well.

“I’m seeing someone new,” says Asterius.

Theseus’ body seizes up from his toes to the crown of his head. His eyes fix on a point somewhere in the middle distance. Someone new--who? It couldn’t be--no, surely not...but then again, who else do they know?! _Say something. Say anything._

“That’s...very good.” (Perhaps he shouldn’t take the theater class, if this is the extent of his acting skills.)

“A therapist, I mean.”

“Oh!!” Theseus shouts, drawing several glares from the karate club. He laughs at a volume that seems ear-splitting even to him, clapping Asterius’ shoulder with one vigorous hand. “My friend, I can assure you, you have no need for such things! You are entirely sane and perfectly in control of yourself! And for that matter, what good could it do? Save your money, I say!”

Asterius doesn’t respond at first, leaving Theseus with his own faltering laughter. It’s unnerving, expecting agreement and coming up short against ponderous silence--as though a gulf opened up under his feet. He did nothing wrong, surely. Surely nothing is wrong.

His hands are sweating.

“You remember the storage closet,” says Asterius at last.

“I...do,” says Theseus, who will not soon forget it.

“Well.”

Theseus waits for more, but this seems to be the entirety of Asterius’ counter-argument. He sits back, letting the matter rest. He hasn’t the courage to pursue it further and besides, if Asterius feels this is necessary, to deal with...that...who is Theseus to object? Perhaps he has no need of such measures himself, may think them generally useless, but for Asterius he will be the very picture of a supportive friend.

* * *

Asterius has different standards.

Theseus’ last class on Friday ends at eight-thirty, so every week he walks to Field Hall to wait for Asterius to get out of Statistics at ten. Then, together, they walk home in the dark.

Theseus doesn’t remember how Asterius ended up carrying him that night--he thinks perhaps they’d simply been trying to answer the question of whether he could. Mainly he remembers his heart racing, the thrill of feeling Asterius’ strength, of being lifted so easily. Also, perhaps more importantly..the feeling of having fun, together with a friend. Of laughing and chattering as Asterius carried him step by step across the Diamond. The perfect, transcendent joy of that single moment.

And then he’d seen someone else coming the other way--three boys in letter jackets--and immediately panicked (“Let me down, let me-- _down--!_ Asterius!”). He’d seen himself through their eyes: a cackling, improprietous fool, cradled in another man’s arms like an overgrown baby. He’d caught their looks as they passed, their grins. He was only glad not to see ATN emblazoned on their jackets, to know there was at least a chance this story wouldn’t be carried back to that dreaded house.

He’d tried to explain it all to Asterius later--”It’s embarrassing, you understand!”

Asterius, blank: “I don’t. But I won’t do it again if you don’t want me to.”

Theseus had remembered that perfect, transcendent joy, and weighed it against the esteem of a few strangers. And to his own surprise, he’d found the latter wanting.

Asterius has different standards, and Theseus aspires every day to see the world as he does.

* * *

The Elysium U Wrestling Club is not a club, per se, and does not have official uniforms. They wrestle shirtless or in tanktops. Rapidly it has become clear why skintight bodysuits are the norm, but until Theseus can save up for two, they risk the occasional wardrobe malfunction.

It should be nerve-wracking, wrestling one’s crush with the knowledge that at any moment one of you might accidentally find a handhold on the other’s shorts. And Theseus would be lying if he said he hadn’t...meditated on the idea, or indeed had at least one dream about it. But on the mat, everything seems to fall away--the turmoil of his heart, the inconvenient tendencies of his body, all of it gone and forgotten. It’s him, and Asterius, and the fight, and that’s all he needs.

Far more dangerous, in fact, is the sight of Asterius in one of his plain black T-shirts, stretched tight across his broad chest. The moments where he smiles, and it’s just for Theseus. His _hands._ When they wrestle, Theseus barely notices Asterius’ hands, except to avoid them. Off the mat, he can barely seem to stop thinking about them.

With all of this in mind, it seems just as well that they are the only two members of the “club”. And the rec center management was gracious enough to strike a deal with them: if Theseus and Asterius clean Gym 3 after using it, they are permitted to practice there after the karate club. This is enough for Theseus, who has never fought anyone like Asterius and hardly wants to anymore.

It is unfortunate, therefore, that Zagreus exists.

He appears tonight at exactly 9 pm, in the same godawful red coveralls as always, smudged with oil, his hair a mess of black spikes. Theseus still can’t tell whether he gels it or if it somehow grows that way naturally.

“Hello there, you two!”

“Little guy,” says Asterius. “Back again. Where did you get the band-aids.”

It doesn’t escape Theseus that Asterius was looking closely enough to notice, and cares enough to mention them. But, yes, there are butterfly band-aids plastered on Zagreus’ right-hand knuckles and gauze taped to his face, and that’s new.

“A friend patched me up,” says Zagreus, scratching under the gauze. “You might know him, actually--Patroclus? He coaches the lacrosse team? Kind of…” He seems to search for a word and finishes somewhat weakly, “...depressed?”

The name means nothing to Theseus, but the word _lacrosse_ jogs his memory. Rush Week, and the man outside MMN house, and his attitude of complete ambivalence. _That_ man? _That_ man, who made such a show of caring for nothing and no one, has been bandaging _Zagreus._

Of _course._

“I’m sure I have no idea of whom you speak,” says Theseus, joviality slipping somewhat under the weight of his annoyance. “Let’s get this over with, intruder!”

“Actually,” says Zagreus, pausing in stripping off his coveralls, “I was thinking I’d like to take on Asterius first, this time.”

* * *

Asterius trusts too easily.

Popularity, Theseus has often observed, is not what it seems to be in movies. Rich, handsome athletes certainly enjoy some amount of natural social standing. But as he has learned, repeatedly, it’s not enough. There’s a certain something else he lacks, something that draws in others, something that naturally earns the love of teachers and peers alike.

Zagreus has it in spades. Theseus still remembers seeing him for the first time--filthy and disheveled and _bloodstained,_ like something out of a horror film! And yet somehow there was an easy charm about him, an incomprehensible openness. He was friendly, and humble, and polite to a fault.

It set Theseus’ teeth on edge. And so had the way the way Zagreus looked up at Asterius--that faint, awed smile on his face. His eyes, one green and one brown, filled with overt appreciation.

(“Wow...hey there, big guy!”)

(“Hello...little guy.”)

It was at that moment that Theseus had decided: it was an act. Why else would he approach _them_ , and not a faculty member? And asking for gas money, no less! No, he had to be up to something, certainly. He was a criminal, or a truant, or--well, something else indecent!

And yet Theseus hadn’t the will to turn Zagreus away point-blank--the man in his mind, the hero, he wouldn’t have done so. Instead he decided on a test: a chance for Theseus and Asterius to practice with someone other than each other, and a chance for the intruder to feel as though he might get his gas money--and dinner.

This was the clever part: he will never best them both. It’s as good as turning him away, but without the sting of guilt. Five times now, Theseus has watched happily as a tow truck pulls up outside the gym and hauls the intruder away in an _ancient_ red-and-black restored Ford Mustang (it boggles the mind that he takes it on the road at all). Eventually, Zagreus will give up, and Theseus will never have to see him looking at Asterius again.

Asterius trusts too easily, and therefore Theseus will be on guard to defend him.

* * *

“...so in the end he told me I can go wherever I want, but he’s ‘not responsible for the consequences’. Also he wants me to pay rent and buy all my own groceries and food and stuff. Speaking of which, thanks for dinner!” Zagreus pauses to lick tzatziki from one thumb. Theseus wishes he would hurry up--the restaurant is only open for another hour, and there’s no one else here. Their voices echo off of the blue-and-white tiles of the walls and floor, either unnoticed or disregarded by the employees washing dishes and singing in the kitchen. The food here is good, but more importantly, it’s cheap. Something Theseus has had to learn to take into account, recently.

“I can’t believe I beat you two!” says Zagreus cheerfully, and polishes off the last of his gyro in one massive mouthful.

“For the first and last time,” Theseus declares. Asterius seems completely unbothered by their loss, but Theseus won’t soon forget the humiliation of hitting the mat beneath his hated foe, nor said foe’s irritating grin after the fact. Zagreus has been practicing with someone, of that much Theseus is sure.

Now, Zagreus eyes him with open dislike. “You realize no one’s forcing you to be here, right?”

Theseus does, but he refuses to leave Asterius alone with their wiley and deceitful opponent. (Why Asterius opted to eat with Zagreus in the first place, he doesn’t know.) “And no one forced you to mooch your dinner off of us either, intruder! Why not ask the lacrosse man for money, if he’s so inclined to assist you?”

Oddly, Theseus recognizes the look on Zagreus’ face--the stubborn reluctance of someone raised never to ask for charity. His mother’s and father’s circumstances could not have been more different, and yet he’s seen it on both of them. “Patroclus has already done...too much for me. I’d hate to impose on him any further.”

“And yet you would impose on us!” Theseus protests.

“Yeah, well.” Zagreus grins, sharp and roguish. “I _respect_ _him_. Uh, no offense, Asterius.”

Asterius changes the subject before Theseus can manage more than a high-pitched _“Ugh--!”_

“Never mind that. What you were saying before... Your father is...difficult?”

Zagreus scoffs, glaring out the window at his rustbucket of a car. “You could say that. After a certain point, I just stopped expecting him to do better, and that’s made things easier. Sort of. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever been good enough for him, so...might as well return the favor, right?”

Theseus bristles at this. Somehow he wants to defend Zagreus’ father-- _Well, perhaps you aren’t trying, perhaps he has a point, perhaps his disappointment is understandable if you give up as easily as all that._ But he doesn't know where the urge springs from, and his uneasiness at that stays him, for the moment.

“My father kept me in the basement for seven years,” says Asterius, as casually as though he were describing what he had for breakfast this morning. “I think it was a punishment. For my mother...because I wasn’t his.”

Theseus’ body turns cold. He’s heard this story before...after the incident in the storage closet.

He remembers other details, too--things that bubble to the surface of his mind when he lies awake at night, things that send him into a helpless rage and keep him awake until morning. _He would cut the power to the lights and leave me in the dark for days. He used to starve me, then make me eat raw meat. Said I wasn’t worth the effort of cooking it._

Asterius doesn’t repeat any of that now, but even the smallest admission feels like too much, in the presence of their enemy Zagreus. Theseus knows this is wrong of him; he knows his first thought upon hearing this heartbreaking tale again shouldn’t have been, _I’m not as special to him as I thought._

But these faint compunctions vanish as Zagreus reaches tentatively out to rest a hand on Asterius’. “That’s awful, Asterius. I’m so sorry.” His mouth twists in a wry, perfectly sympathetic smile. “Dads, huh?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Theseus blurts suddenly, before he has to hear Asterius answer. Before he has to see whether Asterius will take the pale hand lying comfortingly on his. “My own father has always had only my best interests at heart! Unlike _you,_ intruder, I have the strength of will to take challenging feedback and grow stronger from it!”

Asterius looks at him with open confusion, but thankfully doesn’t say a word. Even more thankfully, his hand withdraws.

“Then it’s a good thing no one asked you, I guess,” says Zagreus. He’s trying to affect disinterest, but Theseus can hear the undercurrent of anger in his voice and feels a vicious self-satisfaction over it.

Asterius’ eyes are still on him, surely trying to convey something, but he can’t focus to decipher it. “Theseus.”

“Enjoy your little _road trip,”_ Theseus says, snatching up his untouched dinner as he stands. “You may have beaten us this time, but rest assured, you’ll be dragged home once again, and I won’t be so merciful when next we meet!”

“Looking forward to it,” snaps Zagreus, and then: “Hey, that’s perfectly good food, you can’t just throw it--”

Theseus slams his tray down on the stack atop the garbage can, flushing. “I can get more food! I believe it’s called being _rich!_ Not that you would know anything about it!”

_Why did you do that? I don’t know._

He needs to get out of here. _Right_ now.

Asterius rises to follow him, but Zagreus catches him, holds him back.

“Asterius, wait--why do you even hang out with him?”

As desperately as Theseus suddenly wants to hear the answer, the door closes on it with an anticlimactic tinkling bell. Behind him, he can hear just a few curt, muffled words from Asterius. 

And that’s all. Nothing else. What had he hoped for? A grand, poetic speech? Well--yes! _Obviously!_ Of course he would yearn to hear his only friend defend him, against such slander. Such things are not Asterius’ strongpoint, but still...

Theseus wonders, trying to breathe, whether this is it. Whether this is the moment when it all breaks. It’s a beautiful September night, cool and breezy, and all down High Street he can hear other students laughing and chattering. For a moment he feels so lonely he can’t stand it.

The door opens behind him.

Theseus feels he should say something--can feel a thousand half-finished sentences boiling in his throat--but he can’t seem to summon the words. In the corner of his eye, he can see Zagreus leaving without a word, off to find his antique car and continue his quest. Asterius, in his kindness, at least waits until their enemy is out of earshot to speak.

“Why did you say that.”

“I--” _I don’t know._ That old, unacceptable answer. Theseus clenches and unclenches his hands rapidly, trying to expel the frantic energy buzzing inside him. “I simply--well, it was _my_ food, Asterius, I can do with it as I--”

“Not that. When you were talking about your father. He didn’t treat you well at all. Why did you lie?”

“Didn’t treat me-- I’m sure I don’t know where you got that impression, Asterius!”

“Every time you mention him, it’s about...how disappointed in you he is. You said he called you broken, and a child. And told you not to ‘act crazy’. And made you quit wrestling. And never listened to--”

“You twist my words, Asterius!” Theseus cries, if only to interrupt him--each new item on this list is like a slap to the face. “You’re not--you’re making him out to be--I’m _certain_ I didn’t phrase all of it quite like that! And for that matter, h-how odd of you to take such close notice of everything I’ve said about him!”

Asterius stares down at him, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Unreadable. Again, Theseus is left to agonize over the echoes of his own words, wondering what he said wrong this time.

“After our third practice,” says Asterius at last. “He called you.”

Theseus remembers, and knows where this is going. He doesn’t want to hear it, but he seems to have forgotten how to move his mouth.

“You were scared,” Asterius continues. “I’d never seen you scared before. You answered it and he hung up without saying a thing. Hadn’t meant to call in the first place. You didn’t talk for the rest of the night.”

“That...is no indication of his character,” Theseus rasps. He remembers his exact feelings in that moment, the combined hope and betrayal and embarrassment folded together and buried in his chest like a blade. It’s still in him now.

“Isn’t it?” Asterius snorts, a sharply-exhaled _hm._ “Well. That’s why I was confused, anyway. That you would defend him.”

“I meant every word of it,” says Theseus, half aware of the lie, half clinging to it as the truth. He’s very tired, suddenly. His hands hang limp at his sides. Everything inside him hurts, but somehow it’s as though the countdown has been interrupted, the explosion delayed.

“I...believe that you believe that,” Asterius says, and ushers him down the street. “Come on. I have to get up at seven tomorrow.”

* * *

Asterius is fragile in small ways.

He doesn’t do well in crowds, with loud sounds or bright lights. They went to a club once, and he looked as though he might throw up from all the noise and colors. Theseus, who some days has a similar reaction to stillness and quiet, doesn’t exactly understand, but he is prepared to accommodate. They compromise, finding things to do that are not too much for Asterius or too little for Theseus.

Other hurdles are not so easily cleared.

Most days, they use the gym late enough that the rec center is largely empty. Theseus rather likes it--the feeling that the building belongs to them, and he’s free to chatter as he pleases without bothering anyone. Even when he and Asterius wander downstairs to fetch their headgear from the only storage closet, they rarely see another soul.

So he will not soon forget opening the closet door to leave and hearing Pirithous’ voice echoing down the hallway, coming closer. Immediately, he’d shut the door again and, in a panic, switched the light off. Thinking back now, he thinks he remembers Asterius starting to say something in that moment--or perhaps just making a noise, some brief, formless exclamation of panic.

At the time, Theseus had been too preoccupied with listening at the doorjamb to think about it. There were maybe four of them, counting Pirithous. Sharing a flask, complaining about how late the fundraiser was running. His heart had slowed, then, the memory of how it felt when they broke his arm beginning to soften and fade. They weren’t coming in. They hadn’t seen him.

And when Asterius’ arms had closed around him, he’d almost forgotten about Pirithous completely.

He still remembers, with no small amount of shame, his own terrified excitement. The feeling of Asterius’ body against him in the dark, huge and solid and warm. Turning around to be face-to-face with him. He couldn’t confess his feelings, wouldn’t dare to pull that pin himself, but somehow in the dark it was different. They could pretend later that it hadn’t happened, whatever it was. Whatever Asterius wanted.

Then he’d noticed that the arms folded around his shoulders were shaking. Asterius had sunk to his knees, and of course brought Theseus with him, with that inescapable, inexorable weight of his.

Theseus remembers his voice, murmuring something in fitful gasps--a repeated chant, like a spell. _“I’m Asterius, I’m twenty one, I live in Axehead Hall, Room 280, it’s eight o’clock on--it’s--it’s--”_

He hadn’t been able to remember the date. Eventually, he’d stopped repeating the rest of it as well and just fought to breathe, clutching at Theseus’ frozen body while muffled voices echoed in from outside. A nightmare-turned-dream, turned nightmare again. Theseus, inanely remembering his humiliating attack in the hospital, had murmured things about breathing and relaxing, and reached around to rub Asterius’ back. As much as he’d hated having it done to him, it was the only thing he could think to do.

They’d stayed like that until the voices were gone, and without saying a word left the rec center together. Practice was out of the question.

They’d stayed up late that night, sitting on the bed not-really-watching a swords and sandals film from the 60s on Theseus’ laptop. Around two in the morning, he’d at last found the courage to ask Asterius about the incident. And Asterius had spared no detail. It seemed clear from his rote tone of voice that he’d shared all this many times before--though with whom, Theseus couldn’t guess.

He’d had a few questions, when all was said and done, but he only remembers the answer to one of them.

Why, he’d asked. Why hadn’t Asterius just opened the door and left. They could have fought together. They likely would have won (despite Theseus’ own cowardice, he didn’t add).

Theseus will never forget Asterius’ expression in that moment, the sudden shift to resignation, on a face still ashen and tracked with dried fear-sweat. “I thought it was locked,” he’d said, and lowered his gaze then, as though somehow ashamed. “It was always locked.”

Theseus has wished ever since, with a fierce, horrible passion, that he’d opened the door. Damn the consequences--he’d have let them break every bone in his body to avoid seeing that look on Asterius’ face again.

He wonders whether, to Asterius, he looked the same after hearing Father hang up on him. It seems ludicrous to think--it _can’t_ be the same. It’s not remotely comparable. And yet the thought won’t seem to leave his head.

Asterius is fragile in small ways. It’s only now occurring to Theseus that he might be as well.

* * *

The new semester starts. They go to class, they watch movies, they wander downtown buying nothing. They wrestle. Normal things. Zagreus hasn’t appeared in months, and Theseus hopes this indicates that he’s given up, or else found someone else to swindle.

He’s trudging out of Econ one evening, into the cool, purple dusk, when his phone rings. Theseus assumes it must be Asterius--the only person on campus with his number--and his thumb is already poised to swipe when he notices.

 _Father,_ reads the caller ID.

The shock hits him first, and Theseus knows the fear must be on its heels, so he accepts the call before he can think better of it. (Better of it?)

“Father! It’s--” He swallows convulsively, tries again. “How excellent to hear from you again! How have you--”

_“You’re taking a creative writing course.”_

“Um. Yes.”

_“Drop it. You’re there to get an education, not waste more of my money.”_

“But--”

_“But nothing. You don’t use that word when you’re speaking to me.”_

He doesn’t, it’s true. Theseus doesn’t know when he forgot, or why-- Why it makes him so _angry,_ suddenly, to be rebuffed for it.

_“Do you understand?”_

“Yes,” says Theseus. The word tastes like bile and crushed cigarettes. He wants to scream and argue--with _Father_ , at _his father_. He wants to say no, he doesn’t understand, actually. He's tried so hard his entire life, without ever understanding the expectations placed on him.

 _“Drop the class,”_ says Father, and hangs up without waiting for a response. And that’s the end of it. The only contact he’s had from the man in a year. He wants to go home. He wants his mother. He wants to sit down under a tree in the Diamond and cry.

But he has wrestling practice in ten minutes, so he does none of those things. And by the time he reaches the rec center, the lump in his throat has all but dissolved.

“...So I was right,” says Asterius. They’re stretching, feet pressed together, hands clasped between them, leaning back and forth. Usually, Theseus would be guiltily pleased by the intimacy of the moment, but their current conversation has destroyed any chance of that.

“You--perhaps,” he mumbles, and dutifully allows Asterius to pull him forward, stretching his hamstrings. “But, regardless, it isn’t as though there’s anything to be done about it.”

“Keep the class,” says Asterius simply.

Theseus shoots him a sullen glare. “My friend, you don’t understand--he will surely end my school career if I so much as think of disobeying him.”

“You could find a job,” says Asterius. “An apartment. We could live together. You could...start a fitness vlog.”

“What on earth,” says Theseus, pulling him back the other way, “is a vlog.”

Asterius grimaces--between the two of them, he is decidedly the less flexible. “I’m just saying. There are options that don’t involve your father’s support. Think about the little guy--”

“What-- _Zagreus?”_ He spits the name like a curse. “I will _not_ think about him! I refuse to! What possible relevance could he have to my situation?”

“His father cut him off for following his heart,” says Asterius patiently. “But it didn’t stop him. He’s still...looking for whatever he’s looking for, out there.”

“You admire him, then,” says Theseus. He can hear the thread of nastiness in his voice, but can’t seem to help it. “You think him admirable!”

To his horror, Asterius does not rush immediately to deny it. Instead he releases Theseus’ hands and sits back, frowning. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Theseus springs to his feet, appalled, all his fears confirmed. “Asterius, he means to ruin our friendship! He has already begun, the cracks have already formed--”

“He can’t ‘ruin our friendship’,” says Asterius. “Even if he wanted to. Even if he tried. He doesn’t even understand it. How could he have any power over it.”

“But--”

“You have that power,” says Asterius, with more force than Theseus has ever heard from him. He stands, slow and purposeful as ever, like a great statue come to life. “Only you.”

The words break something in him--or, no, that’s not quite right.

They pull a pin.

“Oh,” says Theseus. “I...” His heart keens. His chest is tight with elation and terror. God, it’s happening, _it’s happening, no._ This should have been the end of it, this should have been the revelation after which everything was settled, but nothing lasts, joy turns to pain-- “What if I am helpless to stop myself?” he blurts out, and finds himself whining, on the verge of tears. “Never before have I prevented it! Asterius, I cannot help what I feel, I cannot help what my feelings ruin--certainly not _these_ feelings!”

“What,” says Asterius. “What feelings.”

Theseus bristles, clutching his chest. “You--you mock me!”

“I don’t.”

“The feelings I _denied having,_ when you inquired after them! Surely you cannot have failed to notice--I _must_ have betrayed them, and you were kind enough to pretend at ignorance--”

“You lied.” Again, Asterius is impossible to read. Theseus folds his arms, bracing for disappointment.

“Well--what of it? What if I did?”

Asterius’ hands grasp his shoulders, soft but firm, inescapable, warm on his bare skin. He leans closer. “Then we feel the same.”

Theseus doesn’t know what’s happening anymore. _“WhatIamtryingtosayis--_ e-even if you do have some fellow feeling for me, it cannot possibly be as ardent as mine for you!”

Asterius’ face comes close to his, and Theseus catches his breath, waiting for the kiss--but instead he just hovers there, warm breath touching Theseus’ cheek. “Why not?”

Theseus will go mad, like this. His soul will leave his body entirely. “Because--because--ASTERIUS I am TELLING you--I should be too _much_ for you, I am too _much!”_

“You’re not,” says Asterius with great finality, his nose bumping against Theseus’ cheekbone. He’s waiting to kiss him, Asterius wants to _kiss him,_ how can it be so miserable and so glorious all at once?

“I _will_ be,” Theseus manages to say, aching to either flee in a panic or leap into Asterius’ arms. “I’ll--I always am! I _feel_ too much, I am too strange, you could not possibly--”

Asterius withdraws suddenly, drawing himself up to his full height. The distance is as painful as his nearness. “More stories,” he rumbles.

“It’s the _truth!”_

“It’s a tragedy. It’s a story where you’re unlovable.”

 _I am_ , thinks Theseus, and it takes every fiber of his being not to say it aloud. But Asterius must see it on his face, somehow.

Theseus had almost forgotten what he looks like when he’s angry.

“Let’s fight.”

 _“Now?”_ Theseus says, weakly.

“Now.” Asterius lowers his stance, draws his arms in. Reluctantly, Theseus mirrors him.

“How many rounds?”

“As many as it takes,” says Asterius, his voice impossibly deep, his eyes terribly focused. “If your feelings are so much stronger than mine, then show me. Make me give up.”

It isn’t like any scene from any rom-com they’ve watched together (and they’ve watched quite a few). It isn’t how things like this are supposed to go. But it’s something between them that they both understand, a language they both speak. And by this point, Theseus is beginning to think “supposed to” is an overrated concept.

They wrestle.

Theseus takes the first round, and Asterius the second. This is the beauty of their matches: that despite Asterius’ immense size and strength, they are evenly matched. Asterius’ holds are impossible to escape, but first he must catch Theseus, and that is easier said than done. Asterius has great stamina, but is slow; Theseus has great speed, but tires more easily.

Theseus takes another two wins. It’s nine-thirty, and they haven’t stopped. His thighs are burning. His tanktop is soaked with sweat. A curl of black hair is hanging loose from Asterius’ ponytail, fetchingly askew across his forehead, and Theseus blames his next loss entirely on this distraction.

Lying on sweat-sticky blue vinyl, half-winded, with one of Asterius’ giant arms around his neck and the other around his thigh, Theseus considers that perhaps he’s misjudged things again.

“Give up?” grunts Asterius, as if Theseus could do anything but, trapped under him like this.

“I had convinced myself..that your feelings...were not as powerful as mine,” says Theseus, muffled against Asterius’ ribs. “I had...evidence. Moments when I thought I had discovered clues to the limits of your affection.”

“You could have asked.”

“That is not--the _point_ ,” mumbles Theseus, tapping the mat at last. “I was _certain_. I was certain of something, and now you tell me it was entirely untrue. This isn’t the first time it’s happened to me, either, Asterius! Every time--I seek confirmation of my sanity and find none! I am either sane or insane, either broken or--”

“No.” Asterius releases him, and Theseus is slower to get up this time. “You’re not a hero. You’re not a villain. It’s not that dramatic. And people aren’t looking as hard as you think.”

That familiar, cornered-animal rage twists Theseus’ gut. He forgets all about wrestling for a moment, wants to punch Asterius in the face, destroy him, flee from him. “Bold words, from someone with no regard for his own appearance! Perhaps _you_ would do well to worry _more!_ Why, without my help, you’d still look like--like--”

Something stops him, catches him mid-sentence. It might be the look on Asterius’ face, or the clarity that comes with a good wrestling match, or simply a miracle. For what might be the first time, he finds himself torn away from the rage, looking down on it from a separate vantage point. Seeing it from the outside, for what it is: not righteous indignation, or justifiable defense of something true and good, or even true anger. It’s small, and pathetic, and childish. It’s embarrassment.

“Ah,” he says. “I’m--”

And then Asterius ducks low, and has his left arm and leg trapped together before Theseus can even think to dodge. He _would_ dodge, normally, but he can barely think, let alone focus on wrestling.

“I’m sorry, Asterius,” he chokes out, twisting half-heartedly to keep himself off the ground. “I didn’t mean--”

Asterius hooks a leg over him, flexes, and just like that Theseus is pinned again. “My round.”

He’s right, but Theseus doesn’t tap out, only lies limply in his grip, praying his tears look like nothing so much as more beads of sweat. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I told you. I did tell you, Asterius, you cannot say--”

“Apology accepted,” Asterius grunts in his ear. _“My round._ Tap.”

“No!” Theseus squawks, though it is undeniably Asterius’ win. “I was saying such horrible things--there is something cruel in me--”

“You apologized.”

“It isn’t _enough!”_

“Then find a way to do better.” Theseus’ limbs are going numb, and still he doesn’t tap out. He can’t shake the terrible feeling that if he yields now, this will be the last time. That he’ll never lie like this again, folded on the ground, sweating and aching, with Asterius’ face by his. That this will be the last moment in which he is real. “Stop looking for punishment. Try to change instead.” 

“I don’t--think I _can,”_ says Theseus, his voice cracking grotesquely.

“You changed me.”

“Asterius, as glorious as your hair looks now that you use conditioner, I don’t think--”

“You fought for me,” says Asterius. “When they broke your arm.”

“I don’t know what you’re--”

“I’m not stupid. You tried to get my scarf back, and they hurt you. But you came to apologize anyway. You weren’t afraid of me.”

“Of course I wasn’t!”

“Everyone is. You weren’t. Even when we were fighting. You _laughed.”_

“I wasn’t--I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” Asterius tightens his grip, making Theseus’ right thigh ache sharply. “It was incredible. I wanted to see you like that again. You don’t understand. You don’t know how strange it was, to want to do something. To want to be around someone.”

Theseus has never heard his friend say this many words all at once--certainly not with so much passion. He wills the tears to stop welling up, his breath to stop hitching, his face to stop contorting into something sobbing and babyish. It’s no use. He turns his head away from Asterius, insofar as he can.

“You showed me new things. You took me to new places. You never made fun of my ignorance. You let me be myself.” Asterius takes a slow, audible breath, as though calming himself. Theseus feels a weight just behind his left ear--Asterius awkwardly resting his head there. “You don’t understand. How can I make you understand.”

“Uh, hello…?”

Theseus cranes his neck to look at the door, where stands, of course, Zagreus. The bane of his existence.

“Sorry to interrupt,” says Zagreus awkwardly, “I just...you know... Gas...”

“Not tonight,” says Asterius.

“What?” breathes Theseus, and Zagreus echoes the question from the door.

“I said, not tonight. We’re in the middle of something. Go away.”

And Theseus’ heart, petty and cowardly, leaps again at last. Stupid, he thinks, scrubbing at his face with his free arm. Ridiculous, he thinks, briskly tapping the mat. His arm and leg scream in complaint as Asterius lets them go at last, and he laughs at the pain.

“Again?” says Asterius, standing.

Theseus shakes his head, still laughing. “No! No, my friend, I yield. Forgive me, I yield!”

Asterius studies him for a long moment, and at last the burning in his eyes softens. Theseus sees something else there, and yet again he finds himself unable to interpret it. But he’d like to learn. More than anything, he would like to learn.

“So you…”

“I should have known sooner,” says Theseus. “You are my equal in every regard, after all. God! I yield. You two, have your battle! I’m going to refill my water bottle.”

* * *

Asterius loves him.

Somehow, Asterius loves him.

* * *

Zagreus defeats them both with shameful ease, one after the other--though _only_ because they were so very tired after sparring each other for so long, Theseus assures himself.

Still, it stings. And still he feels that awful surge of jealousy, loneliness, abandonment, at the sight of the two of them talking as they make their way down the street for gyros. And Theseus cannot easily forget the fact that he accepted Asterius’ feelings because for a moment, he felt he’d been chosen over Zagreus. That in his heart, he had still wanted that petty kind of proof.

But Asterius does not hate him for those feelings. Asterius asks only that he be mindful of them, and try to improve. Asterius knows his ugliness and thinks it nothing much to worry about.

Asterius also asked him to apologize to Zagreus. This is slightly more concerning, but-- _try to change,_ he’d said. So Theseus will try.

He clears his throat as they carry their food back to the window booth. Zagreus allows him a guarded, one-eyed glare.

“...Yes?”

“Intruder, I do not trust you.”

“Great,” says Zagreus, setting down his tray. “Let’s eat.”

Theseus slides into the booth across from him, glaring. “I hadn’t finished! I do not trust you, and may never. _However..._ there is some… You may not have--were not deserving of-- My conduct...was decidedly dishonorable.”

“Just in general, or…?” says Zagreus, apparently determined to be intolerable. Theseus feels the raging animal push up in his chest, and waits, and after a long moment feels it settle. He hadn’t known it could do that.

Still, he feels compelled to retort, if only to defend himself. “I heard you, you know--what you asked him as I was leaving!” (He indicates Asterius with a glance.)

“Ah.” To his surprise, Zagreus actually looks somewhat chagrined. “I can get a little, uh…worked up, sometimes. Especially when it comes to my dad. Sorry.”

“Well.” Theseus imagines explaining about the gyro, that he doesn’t know why he threw it away, that he doesn’t know why he does half the things he does. That his mother would have been disappointed in him for wasting food. But after weeks of hiding every conceivable vulnerability from the intruder, such admissions would feel tantamount to handing Zagreus a sword and waiting to be stabbed. Instead he says at last, “I...also...have been known to get a little ‘worked up’.”

Zagreus wrinkles his nose, his mouth twisting oddly for a moment. “Uh. Sure. Apology accepted, I think? Anyway, you can’t be so bad if Asterius likes you.”

Theseus can’t help the delight that stirs in his chest, at that. He’d been too afraid to ask, before now, but this night has emboldened him. “Oh? What did you say, Asterius? When he asked you why you ‘hang out’ with me?”

(Zagreus’ mouth twists again, for some reason.)

“I told him I don’t have to explain myself to him,” says Asterius, popping a fry into his mouth. “And that my therapist thinks you’re a good influence.”

Zagreus frowns. “I don’t know about that.”

“I cannot believe this,” says Theseus. “First you apologize, then not five seconds later you insult me once again!”

“No, not--I mean, I don’t know about _therapy,”_ Zagreus amends, exasperated. “I can just talk to a friend, I don’t need to pay someone a hundred bucks to tell me I have _issues--_ something I already know, thank you very much.”

Theseus draws himself up in offense. “You would discredit Asterius’ chosen path to healing?!”

“That’s not what I--can we _please_ just eat?”

“Do as you please, intruder, but so long as you present me with such insolence, I am honor-bound to confront it!”

“Of course you are,” mutters Zagreus, and digs into his gyro without another word. If he notices when Asterius puts an arm around Theseus’ shoulders, he doesn’t comment. And Theseus, for his part, decides he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of it.

After all, if he’s going to tell himself a story, it may as well be a happy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end! Three Boys With Bad Dads Get Gyros.  
> I was gonna finish it with an extended Ship of Theseus metaphor, but honestly it seemed like a stretch. Besides which, trying to wrap up stories about mental health with some abstract, blindly positive moral feels kind of untrue to The Recovery Journey TM. Besides which, I hadn't set up any Ship of Theseus stuff thematically throughout so it kind of came out of nowhere. It still survives in the title, though (which is from the song Theseus by The Oh Hellos! Which is in the playlist!)  
> I think if I ever go back and change something major, I'd make it so that Theseus and Pirithous had, like...a series of implied low-key toxic no-homo trysts? But I dunno, maybe that'd just be Too Sad.  
> ANYWAY THOUGH thank you so much for reading! The reviews on chapter one were SO SWEET, CRIES! If you enjoyed it, I hope you also enjoyed this one!


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